


The Path Untaken

by Moonfireflight



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, POV Third Person, emetwolweek2020, gender neutral WoL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonfireflight/pseuds/Moonfireflight
Summary: This is a short piece I wrote for the 2nd day prompt "Rain" for #EmetWolWeek2020 on Twitter.A brief moment of connection, and wonderings on what could have been, and perhaps was.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	The Path Untaken

Though the newly revealed stars lay partly hidden behind a patchwork veil of clouds, shining their faint light upon this dying world, the embrace of night is still a relief. The Warrior feels the tension behind their eyes release at last, their shoulders dropping half an ilm from the constant ready posture they’d been in for days. Leaves crunch lightly underfoot as they weave their way through the woods of Rak’Tika with no particular goal in mind. 

The Ascian’s story lingered in their mind, seeking to poke holes in long held beliefs. It was not that they feared change. Learning that the entity who set them on their journey was an ancient primal rather than a goddess was a curiosity at best. It was merely new information to navigate life with. The Warrior had been saved more than once by Her blessing, yes. Now they understood Her reasons did not spawn from some universal benevolence, but were still equally unfathomable. 

No, it was the rest of his tale that lurks just outside of true understanding, chittering away and derailing all other thought. A twig snaps under their boot, startling them out of their reverie for a moment, followed by the plinking of water on dust-coated armor. Another droplet strikes them squarely between the eyes and they blink it away, waving their hand in the air to chase away their aggressor. It never worked, but the instinct was there regardless. 

Arm above their eyes to shield them from the sluggishly building storm, they step off the path and into the relative shelter of a tree. They’d thought the trees strange here before with their many curved trunk sections leaving a hollow large enough to accommodate several people, but they sigh in relief noting that few droplets slip through the canopy. Leaning into the contours of the tree, they find comfort in the sound of rain pattering all around them and the gentle embrace of the woods. 

That is, right until a voice drenched with weary sarcasm cuts through their peace. “This forest stretches for malms, you know. How is it that you’ve wound up right where I was napping, hmm?” 

His voice should have caused the Warrior’s shoulders to tense, to shift them into a fighting stance, ready to deal with any Ascian trickery. And, to be sure, it fills them with enough conflicting emotions that stress is still the appropriate response. They weigh several possible answers to what could only be a rhetorical question. Something that almost resembled sentiment nearly wins out until their own brand of biting wit jumps to the fore. “What, do you want me to say I was drawn here by your presence? That it must be fate?” 

A great sigh filters down through the leaves, reaching the Warrior at about the same time Emet-Selch steps out of a rift before them. He shrugs and shakes his head. “Merely luck then?” When his companion offers no reply, his shoulders slump slightly and he continues. “Not in the mood for questions, I see. Very well then.”

He eyes the Warrior up and down before settling in next to them and crossing his arms to match their pose. “I was simply enjoying the dark and the quiet. Though it means you’ve taken another step towards undoing our work, I confess that the constant droning of the Light wears on me.”

“You’re welcome,” quips the Warrior. The man beside them gives an amused snort and shifts a bit to get more comfortable, a little closer. 

They rest like that in companionable quietude for some time. Perhaps they await the end of the storm. In reality, both stand in awe that they’ve managed to remain alone together for once and neither was sure how to handle it. There’s a tangled mess of questions in the Warrior’s heart, yearning to be let out but any one of them could open a door they weren’t ready for. The Ascian… He’d closed those doors centuries ago, so he tells himself. 

Just as the Warrior nearly finds their words, a rush of wind brings with it the bulk of the storm. Rain crashes down around them in great sheets, though only a few stray droplets breach their hiding place. They look to each other, spontaneously grinning, though the Warrior looks away as that knot within them tightens. Some damnable, impossible familiarity lies within the Ascian’s golden eyes, along the curve of his lips. Maybe if they weren’t shattering from within from the strain of the light. Maybe if they weren’t cast in the role of mortal enemies.  _ Maybe what? What do you want him to be for you? _

“You seem particularly pensive, hero. Is the chill getting to you?” 

Emet-Selch shifts against the tree, moving as if to slip his arm out of his jacket and, “no, no! I’m fine!” they beg, already imagining that fur tickling at their chin as the snuggle deep into it. Somehow they know it will smell of ancient tomes, fine wine, a touch of leather and…  _ You’re being foolish. Fanciful. You know nothing about him! _ “I should get back,” they mumble. 

The Warrior makes a mistake as they speak. Rather than focusing on the whorls in the bark across from them, they catch the full force of the sorrow that crosses Emet-Selch’s unmaked visage.  _ Damn him for not hiding behind one of those bloody red things. _ They expect him to cast it aside and laugh it off, just a brief slip. But he doesn’t. His fingers clench at his sides, then release, and he sighs. “All such moments must come to an end, it seems. I had hoped we might speak, though I enjoyed your company here all the same.”

He’s only ever claimed to speak only the truth, and this naked honesty is too much to bear. There is only the pattering of rain and misty breaths hanging in the air between them, yet the Warrior feels like they are teetering on a precipice. The call of the abyss is mighty. One misstep, one slip of the tongue, would undoubtedly cause a cascade of events that could change everything.

They are no coward, and yet they decline him an answer and leave that path untrod. 

“Wait, hero.” There is a hopeless timber in his voice that makes them hesitate for half a step, and it is enough for Emet-Selch to press something into their hand, his fingers lingering a little too long. “You must be fighting fit if you are to find and slay your quarry. It wouldn’t do to hear of the Warrior of Darkness laid low by catching cold.” His gravity is absolute and even knowing it is the wrong move, the Warrior turns  _ too late _ just in time to see the Ascian step through a portal, gone to wherever he skulks off to when not… here. 

Their heart slips down into the depths of their stomach, into the well of loneliness they carry. In the company of friends, of their found family in the Scions, they can often ignore it, but at this moment, it threatens to drown them. There will be no other chance to ask how they know him so dearly, to ask what they’ve forgotten. The path they’ve denied returns to the earth, overgrown with brambles and leading only to darkness. 

Realizing what they are holding, they look up and laugh miserably. Sunny orange greets them with the canopy of an umbrella. How ludicrous a sight it will be - The Warrior of Darkness traipsing back to Fanow under the cover of their personal sun. 

As the rain splatters against it, they are glad for it though. They weren’t looking forward to sloughing off wet armor, honestly. With one last glance back at the tree, one last second to regret the choice they made, they make their way to the village in the trees. If their fingers trace the handle with a sense of awe, if they hold it a bit too tightly, no one else is there to see.


End file.
